


Six Times John Laurens Appreciated The 21st Century

by Cloudnine101



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton and the 21st century, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Past Hamilton/Eliza, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6105823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Hamilton's wearing a white t-shirt and those grey jeans he'd fallen for at the market one morning. His hair's pulled up into a ponytail at the back of his head, but strands are falling out of it. They frame the lines of his cheeks. His socks are worn at the heels.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>John feels a sudden, sharp stab of longing that makes him breathless.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Now with an extra chapter! :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @muckmagician. Come talk to me about Hamilton!

_1_

"This is ridiculous," Hamilton says, holding a Hawaiian print shirt aloft with an expression of horror. "Would anybody _care_ to explain?" He's addressing the shop at large. A harried young woman tugs her child away from him. Hamilton barely seems to notice, or if he does, he doesn't care.

John shrugs. "I think it's pretty cool," he says, and dumps it into the basket. "Alright. What's next?"

Hamilton's nose wrinkles. "I refuse to wear that monstrosity. It's hideous."

"Next," John repeats firmly, grabbing Hamilton's arm and steering him into the next row. Hamilton lags behind, interest apparently caught by something. John stops. "What is it?"

Hamilton steps forwards, a small smile breaking out across his face.

The jumper's _actually_ hideous. It's _actually_ a monstrosity - a damn sight worse than the beach shirt, which might actually come in handy one of these days, John thinks, and groans, because he can tell where this is heading. It's like a train coming towards him.

"Out of all the things the twenty first century has produced," Hamilton says, awestruck, "this has to be the very best of the lot."

"Alexander," John grits out, "it has shoulder pads. Didn't we agree we were never going to go there again?"

Hamilton frowns. "Yeah, well, whatever. I've gotta have it."

"Typical." John rolls his eyes. He sighs, and shakes his head. "Do what you have to."

 

_2_

When John comes through, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Hamilton's still sitting on the sofa, curled in on himself. He's barely moved from where John left him the previous night, except that his mug's empty now. The bowl of chips John made up is lying untouched.

Hamilton's wearing a white t-shirt and those grey jeans he'd fallen for at the market one morning. His hair's pulled up into a ponytail at the back of his head, but strands are falling out of it. They frame the lines of his cheeks. His socks are worn at the heels.

John feels a sudden, sharp stab of longing that makes him breathless.

"This is fascinating," Hamilton says, when John moves to sit beside him. He hasn't yet looked up. "Do you know that there are trains that move at over _two hundred miles per hour_?"

John wants to kiss him. He wonders if Hamilton would ever allow it. This world has changed so much - perhaps they have both changed with it. John knows that he has - but this has not changed. This surprising rush of wonder has sat with him from the day they first met, in that hole of a bar they used to frequent. Is it still there? How can it be? Everything else is gone.

"I didn't know that," John confesses, and squeezes into the space between Hamilton's side and the seat-arm. Hamilton's eyes finally meet his. The steam from John's coffee is making his glasses fog. "Mind telling me more?"

 

_3_

John can still remember the day he woke up. He was in the back of a parking lot, he knows now, but he hadn't at the time. The concrete had cracked right down the middle. John had pulled himself out of the hole, the muscles in his arms screaming. He'd been wearing his uniform, and his eyes were stinging. He looked around and stared, because everything had been so unfamiliar, and he had been so sure he was dreaming.

"I want to visit Eliza," Hamilton says, in the back of the taxi, peering out of the window at the cars behind them. His breath makes the glass steam.

John nods.

The graveyard isn't pretty, exactly. John doesn't know if Eliza would have liked it. It's hard to think of her here. She'd always been so very full of life - every day had been a gift, for her. She didn't waste a second on things she could never have.

"I miss her every day," Hamilton says. His breath smokes. He's got his coat collar turned up and a scarf tied tight around his neck, and he's still shaking. "Isn't it supposed to get better?"

"It doesn't get better," John says, and his voice is small. He can barely think to speak. "It hurts less."

 

_4_

Hamilton has his old familiar drive. He's an online journalist, now, and angry with it. He rants and raves from dawn 'til dusk, about the Senate and the state of the economy and the freshest batch of Republican candidates. John can't stop looking at the African-American man sipping his beer at the bar. He's only feet away from their table. 

"Nobody cares anymore," John says, "about the colour of your skin."

For the first time since they sat down, Hamilton pauses.

John forces a smile. "I'm sorry. What were you saying? I must've wandered off."

"Don't be." Hamilton's little crooked grin is there - all the more perfect for being something John caused, albeit indirectly. Hamilton has a mole on his left cheek. John wants to hold him - to hold every last bit of it. He wants to hold the whole world in both hands. That's what he loves the most about the two of them. Hamilton makes John feel as though he could do anything - peel away tarmac, stumble onto the sidewalk, heave his guts up, standing in his uniform. Hamilton makes John a brave man.

 

_5_

John thinks: Hamilton's hands are in John's hair, tangled there. (Would that hurt? John hopes so.) And in his head, John kisses him and kisses him, but he can't imagine doing anything past that, so he sits up and he stretches his arms. What would Hamilton make of him? He'd never exactly been the most proper, even in the time where they belonged, but - would he? Could he?

Shaking his head, John goes to get some more coffee. Hamilton's standing in the kitchen, barefoot. He's reading. He's smiling, slightly, at something on the page. It makes John's mouth go dry.

"We're a pair of insomniacs," Hamilton laughs. He turns the page, licking his finger. It's a habit of his. Lick the finger, turn the page.

"I'm in love with you," John tells him. "I'm sorry if you don't feel the same, but if I don't tell you now, I'll probably explode from it, and then you'll have bits of me to clean up all over the floor."

Hamilton looks at him. "What?" he says, "I mean, how? Since _when_?"

"Since always."

Hamilton peers at him, in the same way he looks at a book he doesn't understand - or Aaron Burr, but Burr's dead now, too. John doesn't know how that happened. He didn't think to ask. He wipes his hands on his jeans.

"Since we woke up here, or - ?"

John smiles. "Since New York. Since Yorktown. Since Washington's tent and your hands in mine."

Hamilton flushes starkly. "That was one time," he mutters. "I was drunk!"

"I'm not denying that." John turns away. "I'm not leaving the house. You can move out."

"Of course not. You're not going anywhere." Hamilton's fingers have closed around his wrist, curling in tight. They're so very warm that John gasps. He bites his tongue. "Don't go, John. Stay here."

"That's cruel, don't you think? You know - leading me on kinda deal."

Hamilton's eyes widen a fraction. If you didn't know him well enough, you wouldn't notice. Then again, if you didn't know him well enough, you wouldn't be looking for it, either.

"I missed you," Hamilton says. "In the year I was alive again, and you weren't, I toured South Carolina, and I loved it, because it reminded me of you. Everything did - you and Eliza. It was as though you were back again beside me. But I missed you the most - even more than her, and I didn't know why, at the time, but now I do, and I see men kissing in the street, and I want it for us. I think God's given us his blessing, John, by sending us here."

"If that's what you believe," John says, and then he steps up close. Hamilton's always been smaller than him, and John puts a hand on his shoulder, so that they're both steady. The percolator pings. "Do something about it, Alex."

Hamilton pushes him up against the counter. They kiss like that, for a while. John's blissful. He's floating on air, above himself. Hamilton's strong, and he's smiling, grinning against John's lips. John can't feel a thing apart from the song growing in his bones, in the hollow places and the cracks, and he laughs, head tilted back, as Hamilton presses his lips into his neck.

 

_6_

"I thought you didn't want me," Hamilton whispers, twisting to face him. "After that time when - when I - I wrote you all of those letters, and then you replied only - cordially, right? Why?"

John scoffs. "Alexander," he says, "you made innuendos about the size of my manhood. What was I supposed to do? Croon praise? Write poetry? I thought you might be _joking_."

"You still can't wear that shirt, though," Hamilton huffs, his arm around snaking John's waist.

John nudges him with his foot. "I can too," he says, and, the following day, he does.


	2. Chapter 2

It's their first pride parade, which is going to be a big deal. It would have been important enough by itself, in John's opinion, but if he can only find the stupid ring, it'll be _perfect_.

As if on cue, his phone starts to buzz. John swears. He stops grappling with the back of the couch and runs into the kitchen. He's left it on the counter, as he always does, because he's an idiot and likes to keep valuable electronics within a hand's breadth of the washing-up bowl.

Sometimes, John likes to wonder what General Washington would have made of all this. No doubt he'd have been horrified.

"Alexander," John says, after he's managed to unlock the damn thing, "I'm really sorry, but I think I'm going to be a couple of minutes late. Could you hold on?"

"But - but - everything's here! It's perfect! I can't - we can't miss this, John!"

John rests his elbow on the counter and cradles his head in one hand. He can practically feel it beginning to pound. He looks around at the paper towels, the clock hanging on the wall, Hamilton's Mickey Mouse Statuette. That thing has always slightly scared him. "I'm coming," he says. He manages to hold down his sigh. 

 

.

 

It hurts, he thinks, as he buckles himself in. John had this all planned out. They would drive to the parade. Hamilton would snipe the whole way, until he actually got there, when his face would do that sweet, relaxed thing, and John could safely say he was forgotten about. Then he would check the ring, and they would have a look around. John wasn't entirely sure what they'd see, but from what he'd managed to ascertain from Google, it would be very colourful. And then, when the time was right, John would propose. If the time was right. How was he supposed to tell? How could anyone? He'd been counting on some gut instinct to show him the way.

Hamilton had chucked that plan out of the window when he said he wanted to arrive first - soak in the sights by himself. John's pride had been a little injured by that, but he'd gotten over it quickly enough. Then Hamilton had asked for an _hour_ alone. That was okay, too. But now the ring was missing, and that ruined everything. In one last-ditch attempt, John checked in the pockets behind the car seats and in the CD holders. Nothing.

The parade is being started outside the coffee shop a few blocks over. John has to park his car a few miles back, and walk - the crush is nearly stupendous. There are people with camera, people with children on their shoulders, people talking and laughing and telling stories. John allows himself to be swept up in it, for a moment, before finding his feet again. This would be Hamilton's haven! He had had the right idea, at least. Hamilton would be much more likely to accept a proposal on his home turf.

That's the problem - the grand flaw in his design. Will Hamilton accept? Will he want to be tied down - tied down to John? Is it too soon after Eliza? Will it always be too soon? Will he apologise, say that John was his boyfriend, yes, but that he wasn't ready for anything more quite yet? The latter would be the kindest, and the fairest. John could accept the latter. Anything else - no. He wouldn't think about it. Hamilton loves him; he's said so time and time again. And why is John doubting it? He's nervous. It's just nerves, and he has everything to be nervous about! John stands up, smoothing down his coat. He tugs at his lapels. 

 

.

 

Hamilton is nowhere to be seen. John's tired the park, the surrounding shops, asking people in the crowd. Nobody's heard anything, nobody knows anything, and everybody is apologetic but they'd like to go about their day now, thanks. John's getting desperate, but he really wants one of those t-shirts, so he buys one, and a flower crown to go with it. It keeps falling down over his eye.

Out of desperation, John begins to push himself towards the central stage, with the balloons hovering around it. Maybe Hamilton's decided to make a speech about free-will and social liberty. It's hardly the most far-fetched thing he's ever tired.

"John!"

John spins; there is Hamilton, running towards him, obviously tired. There's some kind of sticking plaster on the side of his face. It has a picture of Mickey Mouse on it.

"Alexander!" John says, taking hold of his arms and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I've been looking for you everywhere! I took a really long time, I know, but - "

"You have to get over here!" Hamilton says. He grabs John's hand and tugs. John is propelled forwards. He stumbles, steadying himself on Hamilton's shoulders.

"What's going on?" Hamilton shakes his head, mouthing wordlessly. John tries again. He's tired; he's sweating. Hamilton's eyes are wide, canny. "What's going on?"

"I'm trying to propose to you!" Hamilton shouts above the din. He colours, stopping so abruptly that John almost runs directly into him. Hamilton's hair is curling in the heat. The top few buttons of his shirt are open. "This isn't how it was meant to happen. I had - there's a band over there, and I hired them to come out today, I - and when I say come out, I don't mean in the modern sense, obviously. And I thought that it would be appropriate, this being a celebration of different sexualities."

"Right," John says. He can't think of anything else.

Hamilton's eyes are on everything and everyone but him. "Yeah." He clears his throat and kneels. He fumbles in his pocket to open the box, which is small and black and oddly, devastatingly familiar. John watches with a peculiar sense of detachment. His head rings. He almost wants to laugh, except for the fact that he'd choke. "John Laurens - my closest friend, my lover, my best self - will you do me the honour of becoming my husband? Of binding ourselves together? Of interweaving our two spirits? Of forming the most sacred and special - "

"Alright, alright, enough," John says. "That ring - that's not the right ring. That's the ring I bought to give to you. I was going to propose today, and you've taken my ring!"

Hamilton's eyes widen. "Oh."

They've attracted more than a few stares by now. John runs his hands through his hair. "Where's _your_ ring? I've been looking for that one for hours!"

"I must have left it at home," Hamilton says. "I found this in our drawer. I thought - "

Something snaps into place.

"Wait a second. You're proposing to me?" John says.

Hamilton nods. "I am."

John falls to the ground and takes Hamilton's face in his hands; Hamilton's scribble scratches against his fingertips. He kisses Hamilton, right on the mouth; Hamilton breathes against his lips, and he's smiling, coy, pressing deeper, until John draws back. He's light-headed.

"Yes," John finds himself saying, coming back into his body, "yes, I will marry you, absolutely, let's get married!"

There are a couple of cheers from the crowd. John stands up quickly. Hamilton staggers after him, beaming broadly. He takes a few bows. John takes his hand and gently leads him away from the ring, towards the shelter of an awning. Hamilton's hand is as warm as it always has been. They compliment each other well enough for it to be perfect.

 

.

 

John closes his eyes and rests his head against the dashboard. "You were keeping it in our sock drawer?"

Hamilton smiles, abashed, and, for once, silent.


End file.
